There might not be too much bloggin' round these parts, so – following in the grand and slightly embarrassing tradition established three days ago – I leave you with this minor contribution to the world's collection of Verse About Grammar. You'll love it. It really speaks to the human condition.
Sweat sodden sheets, smeared with penned secretions,
ink dark excrescences and black blot stain,
a splitting of infinitives,
an upset of the syntax,
words wrenched out, wincing, and scratched out again.
In bed (prepositional phrase), in pain,
inside, crazed (past participle), he ached,
and every motion of his nouns bespake
flaming, fretting fever, a throb, the strain
of verb on verb, dread cancer of the vowels,
something unmentionable in his, ah,
adjectives, cleaved and seething, with the drain
of too much of, an excess of, meaning.
Diagnosed with: something past the colon,
prosaical full stoppings of the brain,
a splitting of the hemispheres,
an upset of the cortex,
the death sentence stopper lodged in a vein.